Arctic Chill (3 page)

'Are there any other relatives or in-laws that Sunee can talk to? On the boy's father's side? Could the elder boy be with them? Are their grandparents alive?'

'Elías sees his grandmother sometimes. His Icelandic grand-father's dead. Sunee is in close touch with the grandmother. She lives here in the city. You ought to let her know. Her name's Sigrídur.'

The interpreter asked Sunee for her number and gave it to Elínborg, who took out her mobile.

'Shouldn't the grandmother come over and be with her?' she asked the interpreter.

Sunee listened to the interpreter and nodded.

'We'll ask her to come,' the interpreter said.

A man appeared in the doorway and Sunee leapt to her feet and ran over to him. It turned out to be her brother. They hugged each other and the brother tried to console Sunee, who slumped weeping into his arms. His name was Virote, and he was several years younger than Sunee. Erlendur and Elínborg exchanged glances as they watched the sorrow cocoon itself around the siblings. A reporter came puffing up the stairs but Elínborg turned him away and escorted him out. Only Erlendur and Gudný were left in the flat with the sister and brother. The interpreter and brother helped Sunee back to the sofa and sat down beside her.

Erlendur went into the little corridor leading to the bedrooms. One was larger, clearly used by the mother. The other contained bunk-beds. The boys slept there. He was greeted by a large poster showing an English football team, which he recognised from the newspapers. There was a smaller poster of a pretty Icelandic singer. An old Apple computer stood on a small desk. Schoolbooks, computer games and toys lay scattered across the floor, rifles and dinosaurs and swords. The bunk-beds were unmade. Boys' dirty clothes lay on a chair.

A typical boys' room, Erlendur thought, prodding at a sock with his foot. The interpreter appeared at the door.

'What kind of people are they?' Erlendur asked.

Gudný shrugged. 'Very ordinary people,' she said. 'People like you and me. Poor people.'

'Can you tell me whether they ever felt themselves the victims of prejudice?'

'I don't think there's been much of that sort of thing. Actually, I'm not quite sure about Niran but Sunee has settled into the neighbourhood well. Prejudices always come out and obviously they've been aware of them. Experience shows that the greatest prejudices are held by those who lack self-confidence and have had a bad upbringing, who have first-hand experience of negligence and apathy.'

'What about her brother? Has he lived here long?'

'Yes, a few years. He's a labourer. Used to work up north, in Akureyri, but he came back to Reykjavík recently.'

'Are he and Sunee close?'

'Yes. Very. They're great friends.'

'What can you tell me about Sunee?'

'She came to Iceland about ten years ago,' Gudný said. 'She really likes it here.'

Sunee had once told her she could hardly believe how desolate and chilly the country was when she took the shuttle from Keflavík airport to Reykjavík. It was rainy and overcast and all she could see through the coach window was flat lava fields and distant blue mountains. There was nothing growing anywhere, no trees and not even a blue sky. When she disembarked from the plane and walked down the gangway she felt the Arctic air hit her, like walking into a cold wall. She got goose-flesh. The temperature was three degrees Celsius. It was the middle of October. It had been thirty degrees Celsius at home when she left.

She had married the Icelander she met in Bangkok. He had courted her, repeatedly invited her out and acted courteously, and told her about Iceland in English, which she hardly spoke and did not understand particularly well. He seemed to have plenty of money and bought little things for her, clothes and trinkets.

He went back to Iceland after they met but they decided to stay in touch. Her friend, who had a better command of English, wrote him a few lines. He returned to Thailand six months later and spent three weeks there. They were together the whole time. She was impressed by him and everything he told her about Iceland. Even though it was small, remote and cold, with a tiny population, it was one of the wealthiest nations in the world. He told her about the wages, which were astronomical compared to the norm in Bangkok. If she moved there and worked hard she could easily support her family back home in Thailand.

He carried her over the threshold of their home, a one-bedroom flat that he owned on Snorrabraut. They had walked there from the shuttle terminal at Hotel Loftleidir. They crossed a busy road, which she later found out was called Miklabraut, and walked down Snorrabraut against the icy north wind. She was wearing Thai summer clothes, thin silk trousers that he had bought for her, a pretty blouse and a light summer jacket. On her feet she wore plastic sandals. Her new husband had not prepared her in any way for her arrival in Iceland.

The flat was fine once she had put it in order. She got a job at a chocolate factory. Their relationship went well at first, but eventually it transpired that they had lied to each other.

'How?' Erlendur asked the interpreter. 'What had they lied about?'

'He'd done it before,' Gudný said. 'Once.'

'Done what before?'

'Been to Thailand to get himself a wife.'

'He'd done that before?'

'Some men have done it several times.'

'And is it... is it legal?'

'There's nothing to stop it'

'But what about Sunee? What lies had she told him?'

'After they'd been together for some time she sent for her son.'

Erlendur stared at the interpreter.

'It turned out that she had a son in Thailand who she'd never told him about.'

'Is that Niran?'

'Yes, Niran. He has an Icelandic name too but calls himself Niran and so does everyone else.'

'So he's ...'

'Elías's half-brother. He's a Thai through and through and has had trouble finding his feet in Iceland, like some other kids in the same position.'

'What about her husband?'

'They got divorced in the end,' Gudný said.

'Niran,' Erlendur said to himself, as if to hear how the name sounded. 'Does that mean anything in particular?'

'It means eternal,' the interpreter said.

'Eternal?'

'Thai names have literal meanings, just like Icelandic ones.'

'And Sunee? What does that mean?'

'Something good,' Gudný said. 'A good thing.'

'Did Elías have a Thai name?'

'Yes: Aran. I'm not sure exactly what that means. I must ask Sunee.'

'Is there any tradition behind such names?'

'Thais use nicknames to confuse evil spirits. It's one of their superstitions. Children are baptised with their real names, but the nicknames are used to lead astray evil spirits that could harm the children. They mustn't find out the real name.'

Music came from the sitting room and Erlendur and the interpreter went back in there from the bedroom. Sunee's brother had put some gentle Thai music on the CD player. Sunee was huddled up on the sofa and now started talking to herself in whispers.

Erlendur looked at the interpreter.

'She's talking about her other son. Niran.'

'We're looking for him,' Erlendur said. 'We'll find him. Tell her that. We'll find him.'

Sunee shook her head and stared into space.

'She thinks he's dead too,' the interpreter said.

Sigurdur Óli hurried towards the school. Three other policemen had accompanied him and now spread out across the school grounds and vicinity in search of the murder weapon. Teaching was over and the building was gloomy and lifeless in the winter darkness. Lights were on in the occasional window, but the main entrance was locked. Sigurdur Óli knocked on the door. It was a grey, three-storey monstrosity, with annexes housing a small indoor swimming pool and carpentry workshop. Memories of cold winter mornings came into Sigurdur Óli's mind: children standing in double rows in the yard, quarrelling and teasing, sometimes fights that the teachers broke up. Rain and snow and darkness for most of the autumn and all winter until spring came, the days grew lighter, the weather improved and the sun started shining. Sigurdur Óli looked across the asphalt playground, the basketball court and football pitch, and could almost hear the old shouts of the kids.

He started kicking at the door and eventually the caretaker appeared, a woman of about fifty who opened up and asked what all the row was about. Sigurdur Óli introduced himself and asked if the form teacher of 5D was still in the school.

'What's going on?' the woman asked.

'Nothing,' Sigurdur Óli said. 'The teacher? Do you know if he's still here?'

'5D? That's room 304. It's on the second floor. I don't know if Agnes has left yet, I'll check.'

Sigurdur Óli had already set off. He knew where the stairs were and took them several steps at a time. The fifth form had been on the second floor in the old days as well, if he remembered correctly. Perhaps the same system was in operation as when he had been a pupil there at the end of the 1970s. In the last century. He felt ten heavy years older when that damn phrase went through his mind. Last century.

All the classrooms on the floor were locked and he bounded back down the stairs. In the meantime, the caretaker had been to the staff room and was waiting in the corridor to tell him that 5D's teacher had gone home.

'Agnes? Is that her name?'

'Yes,' the woman said.

'Is the principal in?'

'Yes. He's in his office.'

Sigurdur Óli almost barged the caretaker out of his way when he strode past her towards the staff room. In his day it had led to the principal's office, he remembered that much. The door was open and he went straight in. He was in a tearing hurry. He noticed that his old principal was still at the school. He was getting ready to go home, knotting a scarf around his neck, when Sigurdur Óli disturbed him.

'What do you want?' the principal asked, startled by the intrusion.

Sigurdur Óli hesitated for a moment, uncertain whether the principal recognised him.

'Can I help you at all?' the principal asked.

'It's about 5D,' Sigurdur Óli said.

'Oh yes?'

'Something's happened.'

'Do you have a child in that class?'

'No. I'm from the police. A pupil from 5D was found dead outside his home. He'd been stabbed and died of the wound. We need to talk to all the teachers in the school, especially those who can tell us anything about this boy, we need to ...'

'What are you . . . ?' the principal gasped, and Sigurdur Óli saw him turn pale.

'... talk to his classmates, the school staff, other people who knew him. We think he was murdered. A single stab wound to the stomach.'

The caretaker had followed Sigurdur Óli into the office. She stood in the doorway, gasping and instinctively covering her mouth, staring at the detective as if unable to believe her ears.

'He was half-Thai, the boy,' Sigurdur Óli continued. Are there many of them at this school?'

'Many of them . . . ?' the principal said vacantly, sinking slowly into his chair. He was almost seventy, had been a teacher all his life, but was quite looking forward to retirement. He could not comprehend what had happened and there was no mistaking the look of disbelief on his face.

'Who is it?' the caretaker said behind Sigurdur Óli. 'Who's dead?'

Sigurdur Óli turned round.

'Sorry, maybe we can talk to you later,' he said as he shut the door.

'I need registers with the names and addresses of the parents,' he said, turning back to the principal. 'I need a list of all the boy's teachers. I need details of any friction within the school, gangs if there are any, race relations, anything that could explain what's happened. Is there anything that springs to mind?'

'I ... I can't think of a thing. I don't believe what you're saying! Is it true? Can such a thing happen?'

'Unfortunately. We need to speed this up. The more time that passes from—'

'Which boy is it?' the principal interrupted him.

Sigurdur Óli told him Elías's name. The principal turned to his computer, went to the school intranet and found the class and a photograph of the boy.

'Before, I used to know every single pupil by name. Now there are just so many. This is him, isn't it?'

'Yes, that's him,' Sigurdur Óli said, peering at the picture. He told the principal about Elías's brother and they found Niran's class and photograph. The brothers were not unalike, both with jet-black hair down over their eyes, dark skin and brown eyes. They emailed Niran's photograph to the police. Sigurdur Óli phoned the station to explain and it was distributed at once, along with the one Erlendur had provided.

'Have there been any clashes between gangs in the school?' Sigurdur Óli asked when he had finished his telephone call.

'Do you think it's connected with the school?' the principal asked, his eyes glued to the computer monitor. Elías's photograph filled the screen, smiling at them. It was a shy smile and instead of looking straight into the camera he was looking just above it, as if the photographer had told him to look up or something had disturbed him. He had symmetrical features with a high forehead and inquisitive, candid eyes.

'We're investigating all the possibilities,' Sigurdur Óli said. 'I can't say any more.'

'Does it have something to do with racism? What were you saying?'

'Only that the boy's mother is from Thailand,' Sigurdur Óli said. 'Nothing else. We don't know what's happened.'

Sigurdur Óli was relieved that the principal did not remember him from his days as a pupil at the school. He did not want to get into a conversation about the old days and old teachers, what had happened to his class and all that crap.

'Nothing's been reported to me,' the principal said, 'or at least nothing serious, and it's out of the question that it could have resulted in this tragedy. I just can't believe what has happened!'

'You'd better believe it,' Sigurdur Óli said.

The principal printed out a list of Elías's classmates. It included the addresses, telephone numbers and names of the parents or guardians. He handed the list to Sigurdur Óli.

'They started here this autumn, the brothers. Shouldn't I email it to the address you gave me too?' he asked. 'This is terrible,' he groaned, staring at his desk as if paralysed.

'Definitely,' Sigurdur Óli said. 'I also need the address and phone number of his form teacher. What happened?'

The principal looked at him.

'What do you mean?'

'You talked about something that wasn't anything serious,' Sigurdur Óli said, 'and it was out of the question that it could have resulted in this tragedy. What was it?'

The principal hesitated.

'What was it?' Sigurdur Óli repeated.

'One of the teachers here has expressed a strong dislike of immigration.'

'By women from Thailand?'

'Those too. People from Asia. The Philippines. Vietnam. Those places. He has very strong views on the matter. But of course they're just his opinions. He would never do anything like this. Never.'

'But he crossed your mind. What's his name?'

'That would be absurd!'

'We need to talk to him,' Sigurdur Óli said.

'He has a good grip on the kids,' the principal said. 'He's like that. He comes across as brash and surly but he gets through to the kids.'

'Did he teach Elías?'

'At some point, naturally. He teaches Icelandic but does a lot of substitution and has taught almost all the children in the school.'

The principal told him the teacher's name and Sigurdur Óli wrote it down.

'I cautioned him once. We accept no racial prejudice at this school,' the principal said firmly. 'Don't imagine that. We don't tolerate it. People discuss racial issues here like everywhere else, especially from the perspective of immigrants. There is absolute equality here, neither the teachers nor the pupils would put up with anything else.'

Sigurdur Óli could tell the principal was still holding back.

'What happened?' he said.

'They almost got into a fight,' the principal said. 'Him and another teacher – Finnur. In the staff room. They had to be separated. He made some remarks that annoyed Finnur. It turned into a kind of cockfight.'

'What remarks?'

'Finnur wouldn't say.'

'Is there anyone else we need to talk to?' Sigurdur Óli asked.

'I can't inform on people just because of their views.'

'You're not informing on people,' Sigurdur Óli said. 'Just because the boy was attacked, it doesn't have to be connected with people's opinions. Far from it. This is a police investigation and we need information. We need to talk to people. We need to map what's going on. It's nothing to do with what views people have.'

'Egill, the woodwork teacher, he got into an argument here the other day. It was a discussion about multiculturalism or something like that, I don't know. He's rather tetchy. He keeps himself well informed. Perhaps you ought to talk to him.'

'How many children of foreign origin are there at this school?' Sigurdur Óli asked as he wrote down the woodwork teacher's name.

'I suppose there are more than thirty in all. It's a big school.'

'And no particular problems have arisen because of it?'

'Of course we are aware of incidents, but none of them serious.'

'So what are we talking about then?'

'Nicknames, scrapping. Nothing that's been reported to me, but the teachers talk about it. Of course, they keep a close eye on what goes on and intervene. We don't want any kind of discrimination in this school and the children know that. The children are very aware of it themselves and notify us immediately, and then we intervene.'

'There are problems in all schools, I imagine,' Sigurdur Óli said. 'Troublemakers. Boys and girls who cause nothing but bother.'

'There are children like that in all schools.'

The principal stared thoughtfully at Sigurdur Óli.

'I have the feeling I recognise you,' he said suddenly. 'What did you say your name was?'

Sigurdur Óli heaved a silent groan. Such a small country. So few people.

'Sigurdur Óli,' he said.

'Sigurdur Óli,' the principal repeated pensively. 'Sigurdur Óli? Did you attend this school?'

'A long time ago. Before 1980. For a very short while.'

Sigurdur Óli could see the principal trying to recall him and could tell that it would not be long before the penny dropped. So he took a very hasty leave. The police would go back to the school and talk to the pupils and teachers and other staff. He was at the door when the principal finally began to get warm.

'Weren't you in the riot in seventy—'

Sigurdur Óli did not hear the end of the question. He strode out of the staff room. The caretaker was nowhere to be seen. The building was deserted this late in the day. About to head back out into the cold, he suddenly stopped and looked up at the ceiling. He dithered for a moment, then headed back up the stairs and was on the second floor before he knew it. On the walls were old class photographs, labelled with the names of the forms and the year. He found the photograph he was looking for, stood in front of it and looked at himself, a twelve-year-old pupil at the school. The children were arranged in three rows in the picture and he was standing in the back row staring straight into the camera, serious, wearing a thin shirt with a wide collar and a bizarre pattern on it, and with the latest disco haircut.

Sigurdur Óli took a long look at the photograph.

'How pathetic,' he said with a sigh.